Tin Man(38)
That afternoon, back at the mas, I stood in the middle of my field of sunflowers and faced the sun as they faced the sun. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, but when I opened my eyes I saw a young woman watching me from the edge of the field. I recognised her. She and her boyfriend had started working in the restaurant a couple of weeks before. We walked towards each other.
Hello, she said in English with a curl of French at the edge, and she introduced herself. Marion. And that over there is Guillaume. My boyfriend.
Ah, I said. The guitar player.
Here, she said, I’ve been to the market. A peach in her tanned, outstretched hand.
Thank you, I said.
People here call you Monsieur Triste. Mister Sad. Did you know that?
I smiled. No, I said. I thought they just called me l’Anglais.
Yes, that too, she said, and we walked back slowly together towards the white stone sheds.
You looked very peaceful out there, she said.
I was.
What were you doing? she asked.
Thinking about my friend, I said. She had a painting of the Sunflowers on her wall, and sometimes, quite suddenly, she’d stop in front of it. Like this. Stare at it. As if she was looking for something. An answer. Something.
What d’you think she was looking for? she said.
I’m not sure, I said, and we walked on.
Acceptance, I said.
How’d you know?
I just do, I said.
Come and join us tonight, she said. Do your writing. You don’t have to speak, Monsieur Triste. But you do have to eat. Sardines at eight.
They cooked outside on a small camping stove. At five to eight, the smell of grilled fish knocked at my door. I opened wine for them, and washed fruit and tomatoes at the tap outside. I sat with them but I didn’t write. I preferred to watch the interplay of their kindness, the uncomplicated looks from one to the other. I listened to them sing and strum guitar. I felt the gratitude of a stray dog brought into a family.
When I left she gave me a lilac for my room. The scent is strong.
The summer is coming to an end. Some rooms stay empty and the restaurant has reduced its menu, and opens only three days a week. People have moved on and my working days are short. I’ve something that I want to do – to experience – before I leave. Everyone tells me that I must.
I take a taxi out through Mausanne and the Alpilles and the vineyards of Les Baux-de-Provence to the bistro in Paradou. In fading light, I sit outside and drink pastis and smoke a Gitanes and watch people as I always do.
I go in to eat just before eight and take a seat at a table of six. Escargots are placed in front of us, the aroma of garlic rising thickly like mist off a lake. It takes time for us all to look up from our plates, and to acknowledge we are in this experience, together. Wine helps. I pour out Cote du Rh?ne into my neighbours’ glasses. We smile. We make comments about the food in French and English and Spanish, because we’re a mix at our table.
Chicken coming now. Salty crunchy skin and tagliatelle with a morel sauce. I don’t like dessert but I do like cheese. A wheel comes towards me with every stink of fermentation on it. How long you staying here? I’m asked. Not long, I say, and I surprise myself. I’m going home, I say.
In the taxi back to the mas, I feel well fed and well drunk. I look out on to the rugged black landscape, the gold of Les Baux shimmering to my left. I ask the taxi driver to stop and he pulls over to the side of the road. I roll down the window and breathe in the garrigue. I think about home. But, mostly, I think about them. These are my last thoughts, the ones I remember, before I fall asleep.
I leave with the last rays of warmth, as October light creeps in and begins to flatten out the days. Marion and Guillaume wave me off in front of the sheds. I feel them watching me as I walk away. At the gate, I turn back for one last look, one last wave. The clouds pull away and the sun bids me farewell.
On the train, I doze, wake, doze, and I paint the Proven?al landscape in my mind for Dora, one last time. The green complementing the deep blue of the sky, the air fizzing with energy. White stone sheds interrupt the scene, and there beyond the sheds, a glimpse of yellow, shouting. And in the foreground, the quiet shape of two lovers. Always two lovers. Shadowed in memory.
I buy a coffee at the buffet car and a cheese baguette and use most of the change in my pocket to pay for it. I spend time counting out the smaller coins and there are disgruntled murmurs from behind me. They think I don’t understand but I do. I thank them in perfect French for their lack of patience and courtesy.
The coffee wakes me up. From then on, I barely take my eyes away from the window. In the reflection, I watch a group of young people sprawling across the seats. I watch two young men sitting opposite one another. Their legs are stretched out and occasionally they brush. A nudge with a foot on the other’s thigh. They are boys in the bodies of men, but still boys, still gauche, still unsure. I catch glimpses of my young self in the reflection, as the landscape changes from warmth to cool, from wild to manicured, with grey clouds gathering low around the high-most hills.
I look at these young men, not in envy but in wonder. It is for them now, the beauty of discovery, that endless moonscape of life unfolding.
November 1990
London is grey.
I haven’t written for a while because I’ve been busy.
I’ve spent the days clearing out my flat until all I’m left with is an armchair and a radio, a small side table – that’s all I need. I’ve a doctor’s appointment later today and on the way down I’ll call into the estate agent and see about putting the flat on the market or renting it out. I’m making my life simple. My thinking is clear and simple.